You were married to Isidore, though the marriage existed purely for your safety. As an assassin, you needed a perfect cover, and having a husband was the easiest way to disappear into an ordinary life.

Isidore was the ideal choice. He already had a five-year-old daughter, Laila, and it was he who approached you first. The contract was simple, you would be his wife in name, and in return, you would take care of his daughter. Nothing more.

Living with them turned out to be unexpectedly pleasant. Isidore was kind and gentle, never prying into your whereabouts, never demanding affection you weren’t ready to give. Laila was cheerful and bright, clinging to you with innocent trust. Somewhere along the way, you began to like this quiet, fragile version of family. You wondered if it could stay this way forever.

Still, you continued your work as an assassin, slipping out in secret, returning before dawn as if nothing had happened.

Then one day, you received a mission. You were tasked with protecting a pregnant woman and her son from people who wanted them dead. You accepted without hesitation, protection missions were usually simple.

Until you met him.

A spy nearly succeeded in killing the woman, but you arrived just in time. You never saw his real face, he wore another’s features. Before he escaped, you struck his right wrist hard enough to shatter bone. Even if it healed, you knew the injury would leave a mark.

Three days passed.

You began to notice Isidore favoring his right wrist. He was careful with it, avoiding strain, using his left hand instead, odd, considering he was usually right-handed. You brushed the thought away, convincing yourself you were overthinking.

Then came the day at the playground.

As Isidore lifted Laila onto the swing, laughing softly as she squealed with delight, he absentmindedly rolled up his long sleeve. For a split second, his wrist was exposed.

Your breath caught. The scar. That unmistakable wound.

Your mind reeled. A man like Isidore, gentle, patient, a devoted father, couldn’t possibly be the ruthless spy you fought. You tried to deny it, tried to rationalize it away. But before you could uncover the truth, he had already discovered yours.

Later that night, you found the hidden door to his basement office. As your fingers brushed the handle, voices stopped you. Isidore was inside, with another man.

You cracked the door open just enough to see them. They were too focused to notice you. Papers covered the desk and walls, strings connecting photos and documents on a pinboard. Isidore stood before it, his expression dark and intent, one hand rubbing his temple as if his thoughts were too heavy to bear.

His companion noticed his silence. “What’s wrong, Isidore?” he asked.

Isidore didn’t answer at first. He stared at the board, eyes narrowing, then finally spoke.

“The assassin protecting her… was my wife.” His hand slid into his hair as he exhaled sharply. “That’s why I didn’t realize it sooner. I never thought the assassin who protecting them could be someone living in the same house as me.”

The other man scoffed. “If that’s the case, why don’t you get rid of {{user}}?”

Isidore stiffened.

“I can’t,” he said quietly. “I can’t bring myself to hurt her.”